My mother glanced at me and then continued with her knitting.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” she asked. “I’ve had a really busy day and I’m tired.”
“No, mom.” I said, determined to say what I desperately had to. “I have to talk to you now.”
My mother shrugged her shoulders and continued to knit.
“Mom.” I said, even though I already knew that I wouldn’t get the response that I so wanted. “I so want us to be a family and for me to be a part of it. I want so much for us to recognize each other as real people with feelings. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I don’t understand.” my mother said, still concentrating on her knitting. “We are a family.”
“We’re not a real family, mom.” I said. “When have we ever done anything together, apart from living in this house? When have we ever laughed and joked together? When have we ever sat down together and just talked about anything and everything? When has anyone in this house ever complimented another for what they are or for something that they’ve done?”
“I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” my mother said.
“Well, when I look at my friends and their families, they all seem to recognize each other as part of their families, they talk and laugh together and when they talk about their parents they do so with pride and love in their voices.”
I waited for my mother to respond but she remained silent. I felt depressed as I realized that what I was saying to her meant nothing. She really didn’t want to understand.
“I know that I shouldn’t compare us to other families.” I said. “But I can’t help it. Our family is so different. I don’t know what happens in other families in the privacy of their homes but I can’t believe that their lives are filled with anger, criticism and violence like ours are.”
“Exactly.” my mother said. “You don’t know what happens in their houses so you have no right to compare us to them.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that.” I said. “But why can’t we be friendlier towards each other? Why can’t we laugh and joke together? Why can’t we recognize each other as human beings with feelings?”
“I think that you’d better speak to your father because I don’t know what you’re talking about.” my mother said. “We are a family and that’s all there is to it. Now please, Cindy. I’m tired and I don’t want to discuss something that's just in your imagination.”
I sat and stared at my mother. I could see that what I had said to her had meant something, but at the same time I could see that she was determined not to react. It was almost as if she was too scared to say something that would confirm what I had said. But why? What could she be so scared of?
I stood up, touched my mother on her shoulder, and left the room.
My mother must have told my father about the one-sided conversation that I’d had with her. He came home late the following evening, having spent several hours in the pub drinking with his friends. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework and my mother stood at the stove preparing our evening meal. My father stood in the doorway and glared at me.
“How dare you compare us to the families of your friends?” he shouted at me. “If there’s any unhappiness in this family it’s the result of your bad behaviour. You’re constantly defying your mother and me and making life as difficult as possible for us!”
I stared at the open textbook on the table in front of me. I knew that if I so much as looked at my father he would hit me.
“Your mother and I have broken our backs to give you the things that you have.” my father said. “And you still have the audacity to complain! You’re nothing but an ungrateful little bitch!”
I knew that for my own good I shouldn't say anything in reply but I wasn’t prepared to accept the unjust accusations that my father was levelling at me. I looked up at him defiantly.
“What about love?” I asked. “Have you and mom ever given me any love?”
“Love!” my father exclaimed. “What the hell do you know about love? All the things that we’ve given you during your miserable life have been given to you because of our love for you!”
“Those are all material things.” I said. “What about words of encouragement? What about compliments for my attempts to better myself? Have you ever taken the time to help me with the things I’m trying to learn and do? No. All you do is shout at me, belittle me and beat me whenever I do anything that’s not to your liking. Have you or mom ever sat down with me and talked about the things that other families talk about? Have we ever sat together laughing and joking and having fun?”
I watched my father go red in the face.
“You arrogant little bitch!” he shouted. “The only times I’ve beaten you are the times when you’ve disobeyed me or your mother or done something stupid and inconsiderate! You’re a vindictive little bitch!”
“Perhaps if you’d taken the trouble to explain to me what and why I was doing the wrong thing there wouldn’t have been the need to beat me.” I said.
“That’s enough!” my father shouted. “Get out of the kitchen! Go to your room! You’ll get no supper tonight, you ungrateful little slut!”
I got up from the table and walked towards the doorway. As I passed my father he raised his right hand and punched me hard on the side of my head. I lost my balance and fell sideways, hitting the side of my forehead against the door jamb and opening a small cut. I felt the warm blood trickle down the side of my face. I staggered to the bathroom, grabbed my facecloth and tried to staunch the flow of blood.
“What’s for supper tonight, Alice?” I heard my father say.
After I’d stopped the bleeding, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and went to my bedroom.
I climbed into my bed and lay staring up at the ceiling. I could hear the clinking of knives and forks on plates as my parents ate their supper. My head ached and I felt terribly depressed. My attempt to get closer to my parents, to become part of the family had failed miserably, and once again my mother had let me down. Could she really have so little feeling for me or was she too scared of my father to back me up? The relationship between me and my parents was now even worse than it had ever been.
I felt so helpless. I so wanted to be part of my family but I had no idea of how to achieve this. I had tried to contribute to the happiness of the family but each time I had been rejected. Deep within me though, I knew that what I was trying to achieve was impossible. The realization that my parents were incapable of expressing love, hit me like a physical blow. My hatred and anger towards myself and the world erupted within me and I began to cry quietly.
For two days following my father’s assault on me I was forbidden to go to school so that the swelling on the side of my face where he’d punched me could subside. The cut on my temple was too small to attract attention but my mother insisted that I cover it with a small piece of plaster.
When I got back to school the news of the deaths of Garth Gilmore’s parents had just become known and, as very little was known about what had actually happened, speculation was rife and gossip abounded. There were even suggestions that Garth had killed his parents. Although I had never even seen Mister and Misses Gilmore I felt a strange empathy for the big quiet boy who appeared to have no close friends and who now also had no family.
The funeral was held on a rainy Tuesday morning and several children at the school applied to attend. I hesitated to apply but eventually my conscience prevailed and I left the school with the other children to go to the church service. I was quite shocked though when, instead of going to the church, the other pupils said that they were going to the movies.
“Come with us, Cindy.” they said. “Surely you’re not really going to go the funeral service.”
“Yes, I am.” I replied. “I think it’s the right thing to do.”
“You’re crazy.” one girl said. “Are you in love with Garth? You must be if you’d rather go to the funeral service than to the movies!�
��
“No, I’m not in love with Garth.” I said emphatically. “He’s just lost his parents and I believe that he needs our support. He needs to see his friends supporting him.”
“We’re not really his friends.” another girl said. “He never talks to us. He’s so aloof. I get the impression that he thinks he’s too good for us.”
Giggling and chattering the girls hurried away.
There was only a small congregation at the church consisting mainly of Mister Gilmore’s fellow workers and a few of Misses Gilmore’s friends. The school principal and Garth’s class teacher were also there. I sat at the back of the church trying not to attract attention to myself.
After the service I approached Garth to offer my sympathies.
“Hello Garth.” I said. “I’m really saddened about your loss. Please accept my sympathies.”
Garth stared at me in surprise.
“Thanks, Cindy.” he said. “I didn’t expect anyone from the school to be here.”
I didn’t know what to say so I touched his arm and walked away.
The following day at school I was subjected to a stream of ridicule by the other pupils.
“Cindy’s in love with Garth!” they chorused.
I felt my anger rise but I fought it away. I knew that reacting to their taunts was exactly what the girls wanted me to do. I smiled at them and remained silent. I could see that disappointment in their faces as I refused to react.
“Come on, Cindy. Admit it. You’ve got a crush on Garth.” Janet said. “You must have, if you preferred to go to the church service instead of to the movies!”
I continued to smile at the girls.
“Well, she hasn’t denied it so it must be true.” one girl said as they walked away.
A week later it was established that the Child Welfare Department had placed Garth with his aunt Rosemary Cooper, Misses Gilmore’s only sibling, who lived three houses away from our house. A week after that Garth returned to school.
During the morning break from classes on the day that Garth returned to school I was sitting on one of the benches eating my sandwiches when I noticed Garth walking towards me. I glanced around at the other pupils and saw that they were all watching me intently. Garth sat down on the bench beside me. I watched him as he glared at the other pupils.
“Look at all the silly little girls staring at me.” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “You’d swear they’d never seen an orphan before. Or maybe they’re staring at me because I’m talking to you. Damned little bitches!”
I continued to eat my food.
“Thank you for coming to the funeral service, Cindy.” Garth said. “I didn’t expect anyone from the school to be there. I really didn’t expect you to be there, after all, we hardly know each other. I don’t think that we’ve ever spoken to each other before then.”
“I just thought that it was the right thing to do.” I said. “I understand you’re living with your aunt Rosemary. What’s she like?”
“So far she’s okay.” Garth replied as he stood up and walked away.
I didn’t understand Garth’s abruptness or his anger but I ignored them. I had gone to the funeral service because I believed that it was the right thing to do. There was no other reason. The fact that Garth had taken the trouble to thank me personally didn’t change anything. I dismissed the vague feeling of camaraderie that I felt towards him. He was obviously just being polite. Any relationship with him was ridiculous. In fact, a relationship with anyone was ridiculous. Relationships required trust and this was something that I simply couldn’t bring myself to do.
By the time I graduated from primary school to high school my anger and hatred towards myself and the world had taken a firm grip on my personality. I was still able to block out the memories of the abuse that I’d been subjected to though, mainly because I didn’t understand it, and the pain that I experienced whenever the memories did appear was unbearable.
Another noticeable consequence of my anger and hatred was the drastic reduction in the number of people that I could describe as friends. Although I tried to curb my emotions it was as if I was sending out some mysterious signal to others to avoid getting close to me. No matter how hard I tried people shunned me. But I was also not prepared to be subservient. If people didn’t want to befriend me then I would live without them.
I continually warned myself though, that I was going against my vow not to let my past affect my future but mostly I just didn’t have the knowledge or the ability to cope with the challenge. People’s behaviour would anger me and I would react in kind, only to realize later that my anger had been aimed at myself and not at them. Mostly, by the time I realized this, it was too late to make amendments.
I also became belligerent, arguing with my fellow pupils and with my teachers and this often led to me being expelled from the classroom until I repented. Along with my belligerence came vindictiveness and I often shocked myself with the destructive thoughts that I felt towards others. The need to hurt others became compulsive but fortunately it was confined to psychological means and not physical.
***
The main problem that I had regarding my abuse was that I didn’t understand what had happened to me and I blamed myself for my ignorance and my helplessness. Even as I grew older and began to learn more about sex I couldn’t come to terms with what my father had done to me. I could understand a stranger abusing me but not my own father. And the fact that my mother must have known what was happening to me and done nothing to protect me made me question my understanding of what a family really was.
I began to fight back at the world by being vindictive, malicious and hateful, but I never understood that my behaviour was being driven by my past. I believed that I was going through a phase in my development that required me to oppose any kind of authority. My behaviour infuriated my father and he continued to assault me but this only made me more determined to defy him.
For reasons that I didn’t understand, my attraction to Garth Gilmore persisted. Unfortunately for me, he didn’t reciprocate. His indifference towards me didn’t deter me though. We were in different classes at High School but I still managed to be near him during the class breaks. He continued to ignore me though.
I became a very troublesome student, fighting with the other pupils, arguing with the teachers and often having to be punished for not doing my homework. My resolution not to be affected by my past faded into obscurity but I also didn’t link my behaviour to my past.
The girls that I associated with at school were becoming more and more fashion conscious and, in the afternoons when they weren’t occupied with extramural sports activities, they would hurry home and change into their most fashionable clothes which always included sheer stockings and high-heeled shoes, and meet at the Espresso Coffee Bar where they flirted with the boys all afternoon. I asked my parents to let me wear stockings.
“You’re far too young to wear stockings!” my father said. “What are you trying to be? The local whore? You will not wear stockings until you reach the age of eighteen. Then you can wear anything you like as you’ll no longer be living here. When you reach the age of twenty one you can go to hell as far as I’m concerned but until then you will do as I say!”
As my parents hardly ever gave me any money of my own to buy clothes, I only had unimaginative clothes that were far from fashionable and had been bought for me by my mother. I was determined to have a pair of stockings and eventually I decided that the only way to get them was to steal them.
After school one afternoon I walked to the nearby supermarket and wandered about in the fashion department surreptitiously watching the staff as they went about their duties. When I felt sure that nobody could see me I quickly grabbed a packet of stockings and pushed it under the seam of my panties beneath my school skirt. I then wandered around the store and finally walked out onto the pavement.
I hadn’t taken more than five steps when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned quickly to se
e a store security guard staring at me.
“Excuse me, Miss.” the uniformed man said. “Please come back into the store. We suspect that you’ve taken goods without paying for them.”
I stood on the pavement and stared at the man, so shocked that I could hardly move. He stared back, unmoved. I managed to hold out my open hands in front of me.
“I haven’t taken anything.” I said. “Look. My hands are empty.”
“Miss.” the guard said. “Please don’t make things more difficult for yourself. Just come back into the store and we’ll sort out the problem in the manager’s office. If you don’t have any unpaid goods on you them you have nothing to fear. We’ll apologize and you can go.”
I felt my shoulders slump as I realized that the guard wasn’t going to let me go. I walked back into the store with the security guard. I noticed people staring at me and I looked down at the floor in front of me as we walked towards the manager’s office. We entered the room and the guard closed the door.
The supermarket manager, a short podgy man with black hair combed forward over his forehead and wearing black-rimmed glasses looked up at us, his eyebrows raised enquiringly. The wall behind him displayed a large number of framed certificates and citations.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mister Harris.” the security guard said. “But I saw this young lady take a packet of stockings, hide it under her skirt and then try to leave the store without paying for the item.”
Mister Harris looked at me, his eyebrows still raised.
“Is that correct, Miss?” he asked.
I took a deep breath and sighed. I looked down at the floor in front of me, realizing that I had no chance of escaping.
“Yes.” I said as I reached under my skirt and withdrew the packet of stockings. I noticed Mister Harris staring at my legs.
“Put the packet on my desk.” he said.
I stepped forward and placed the packet on the desktop.
“Okay, James.” Mister Harris said to the security guard. “Well done. You can leave the young lady with me and go back to your post. I’ll take the matter further from here.”
Phoenix Resurrected Page 5